by Nick Pollota
With a few spare minutes on our hands, the swimmers took the opportunity to get dressed while the rest of us stood guard. Jessica returned in a short black-and-pink flower print dress, which she filled delightfully. The telepath blushed at my thoughts. Richard appeared in tight leather pants and a sleeveless T-shirt that read, “It's not a job, it's an adventure!” Immune to this nonsense, we ignored him. Why do mages have to be so damn weird?
Time ticked by slowly, and it was a nervous three hours before a green cargo jeep rolled silently down the dirt road and came to a stop before the cabin. There was nobody behind the wheel.
“Mexican Holiday!” I shouted through cupped hands, announcing that the area was safe.
There was a rustle of leaves behind us, and Mindy stepped from the bushes on the other side of the cabin, a knife in each hand.
“Hi guys,” she called out merrily, sheathing the blades and strolling closer. “Sorry I took so long, but I stopped for a nap.”
“No problem,” Richard answered, visibly relaxing his grip on the crowbar. “We were just waiting for the bus.”
“Well, here it is. Come and see.”
Hardly more than a box on wheels, the open-back vehicle was quite large enough to carry the whole gang. What's more, the CB radio was in working order, gas tanks full, with a spare ten-gallon gas can strapped to the rear bumper, courtesy of the diligent Ms. Jennings, and a compass in the glove compartment. As a standard precaution, we pasted some mud onto the license plate and peeled off a window sticker to hinder identification. When satisfied, I had the team pile into the jeep with our meager possessions and took off for the village. Once again, I wished that we had been able to drive our van to this cabin, but the heavy armored vehicle never would have made it over some of the dinky bridges spanning the river that fed the mountain lake. Its imposing weight was the only flaw in our mobile command center.
The designated cook for this trip, I took the passenger seat, and dutifully started assembling sandwiches from a hamper on my lap. As each was finished, I passed them about. Everybody ate quickly, the food merely fuel, as they scanned the skies for trouble. It was a gorgeous morning, despite the faint smell of smoke tinting the atmosphere. The lush trees lining the road were emerald green and the sky the kind of blue you never see in a city. The road could have used some work though, being little more than a dirt path with rain gullies. But soon we bounced our way to a much smoother gravel road and started making decent time.
Between bites, we discussed the obvious security leak that had occurred for an enemy to find us, and exactly whose butt was going to get kicked about the matter. Suddenly, with a squeal of brakes the jeep jerked to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road, was a huge furry creature sharpening its claws on the rough surface.
In a practiced motion, Mindy pulled a butcher knife from her shoulder belt and expertly weighed the weapon in a palm. “Okay, what is it?” she asked. “Resembles a bear.”
“Just a grizzly bear,” I said, adjusting my Bureau sunglasses.
Relief was almost palpable. “Just a bear? Nothing more?”
“Just a bear.”
Richard nodded. “Fine.” With a gesture, a duplicate of the mage stepped through the jeep and advanced upon the animal, the image growing in size with every step.
“Scram!” the illusion bellowed, and the bear did a splendid impersonation of a hairy express train, plowing straight through a clump of bushes in its haste to leave the vicinity.
Continuing onward, we encountered the main road, a modern marvel of cracked concrete and really put the pedal to the metal. Alongside the highway, the trees seemed particularly thick, their gnarled branches almost appearing to reach out towards us with malevolent intent. Hopefully, that was just my imagination.
An hour later we passed the sign saying, “Pineville —5 miles” and started to relax. Populated cities were pretty much a safe zone. Nobody fought in the middle of downtown anyplace. Too many bystanders with cameras, police with guns, stupid dogs, traffic, eager-beaver vigilantes and a thousand things that can turn a clockwork scheme into a total fiasco. We know that for a fact, it was a perfect description of our last mission.
Crossing the town line, Raul started scratching at his neck, so I checked out the horizon with my glasses. Even at this range, the reason he was itching was plainly apparent. Overshadowing the normal aura of a small town was a malignant cloud of pulsating ethereal vibrations. It almost dripped with slime.
“Magic up ahead,” I announced coolly. “Big time and evil.”
Jessica cursed and George worked the bolt on his M60. To everybody but us, the weapon appeared to be a banjo. The effect was a permanent illusion that had taken Raul and Richard working together a full week to accomplish. Sure scared the hell out of airport security guards.
“How dark an aura?” Father Donaher asked, fumbling in his coat pocket for shells.
“Purple, with splotches of black.”
That was bad, sure enough, but nowhere near as vile as the monstrosity we had vanquished at the lake. This was starting to have the feel of a concentrated effort by somebody seriously to eliminate us. Which wasn't an entirely bad thing. Saved us the trouble of having to hunt down the monsters. Also, definitely removed the question of whether they were friendly or not.
If George had been driving, we would have charged straight into town and announced our presence on a bullhorn. But wisely Jessica was at the wheel, so instead we parked by a bait'n'tackle store and proceeded on foot.
Pineville was laid out in square strips, the center of a town a traffic circle and small park with the obligatory bronze statue of some pioneer guy holding a rusty musket. Only now the statue was gone, and in its place was a small tornado, a twenty-foot-tall whirlwind dancing on the pedestal. Nearby were several people lying on the sidewalk, their heads a pulpy mass of brains and blood. Two of the corpses were police officers.
Through my sunglasses, I could see the cause for their deaths. Inside the twister was a four-armed demon brandishing the bronze statue like a club. The hellspawn would be invisible to ordinary vision: the poor townsfolk died without even knowing what hit them.
The streets were clear of traffic and the creature hadn't spotted us yet, so we could probably swing round the creature and get to our van without incident. But the still bodies on the ground asked for better than that and I knew my team would agree. It was payback time.
Unable to shout above the wind, I beeped my watch four times. In response, the team spread out in attack pattern number four, pulling handkerchiefs over the lower halves of their faces. We hated to work in public.
Spearheading the assault, George went straight in with the M60, the big blaster chugging away on its last belt of ammo. We knew standard AP rounds would do no good against this sort of creature. This was a feint, to allow the dangerous people to get close. In a series of banging impacts, the armor-piercing rounds tore the bronze statue to shreds. The snarling demon dropped the ruined club and stepped off the pedestal.
Father Donaher approached from the west, shotgun under one arm, the other holding a Bible, ready to administer a withering blast or a deadly blessing. I had always admired the man's raw courage. Moving to the sidewalk, the whirlwind ripped free a bench and hurled it at the priest. Donaher dodged and the bench hit George sideways with a sickening crunch. He dropped the M60 and hit the ground staying very still.
A twirling baton of steel and wood, the double-headed axe came out of the north and plowed into the tornado, knocking the demon off its hooves. That made the wind slow and a Molotov cocktail arched in to smash on the demon, spreading into a pool of flame. Frantically, the creature rolled away from the fire and a crowbar twirled by, just missing its face by a scant half inch.
On command, Jessica was by my side and she mentally relayed my orders. Now our attack coalesced. As the others circled about the creature to hold it in position, the fierce wind tore at our clothes, bits of dirt and leaves hitting us with stinging impact.
I fired off my last two bullets, the brutal currents deflecting the heavy rounds, but I still managed to wound the demon in the shoulder, the silver slug withering the limb into a stick. Ha! Raul gestured and a duplicate of each of us stood next to the original. Richard fired an arrow from the ornate ring on his index finger. Donaher pulled out a silver-edged knife. I grabbed my pistol by the barrel and got ready to throw. Jess raised another Molotov. We advanced slowly as it braced for our attack.
Then from out of the sky, Mindy came swinging by overhead at the end of an electric power cable. Halfway across the street, she dropped away and the cable sailed on, sucked in by the very protective force of the vortex. The demon tried to dodge, but with the same success as George. The end of the cable caught it in the chest and lightning erupted from the contact. Fat sparks crackled and danced over the galvanized hellspawn, its misshapen body jerking about madly.
Trying to get free, it expanded the tornado to completely engulf the town. Windows shattered and cars flipped over as the screaming hurricane increased in force and volume, until the whole world seemed to be filled with the throbbing maelstrom.
Latching onto a fireplug, I hugged it with all of my strength, desperately trying not to be blown away. Leaves plastered my face, loose items bounced off my arms and legs. The sidewalk cracked, the fireplug began to rise and then just as fast as it started, the buffeting winds abruptly ceased.
I bellyflopped onto the concrete, and painfully struggled to my feet. With gun in hand, I started for the traffic circle, the rest of my team close behind. This could be a trick, but when we arrived there was only a greasy smudge on the ground where the demon had been standing. Aw right, electricity. It was the only way to stop demons or extra-terrestrial carrots. However, sprawled nearby was George, motionless underneath the bench.
It took three of us to move the bench, but a cursory examination by Donaher showed that George was alive, just badly bruised and with several broken ribs. No prob. Once in the van we could fix minor wounds such as those easily.
With Donaher and Richard supporting the man, we made our way through the debris-strewn streets and past the growing crowd of civilians. A local reporter tried to take our picture and Jessica tripped, accidentally breaking his camera. Such a clumsy gal is our Jess.
Do my best, chief.
Two corners later we reached the parking garage by City Hall. A sign by the kiosk said they were open twenty-four hours, but the attendant was nowhere in sight. As a precaution, the team fanned out while Mindy and I checked the wooden booth. There was nothing suspicious, except for a tipped cup of coffee on the table that was dripping liquid onto the tiled floor. I followed a drop down to a pair of battered shoes underneath. Then blinked in shock. The shoes were not empty, feet were inside neatly cut off at the ankles. Yuck. This was becoming mondo bizzarro.
Our van was on level two, the middle level. We had specially chosen it for security reasons, not readily accessible from the ground, not directly exposed to the sky. But now it meant our unknown adversary had lots of shadows to hide in.
Keeping to the center of the main ramp, we reached level two, and, big surprise, the lights were out. In a standard two on two defensive formation, we edged along to the middle line of cars. Sure enough, there was the attendant, checking license plate numbers on a clipboard. His feet, however, were strategically hidden behind a cement bumper.
“Hi, guys,” he said showing a big smile and giving a wave. “Finished with ya fishing already?”
“Black!” I shouted adjusting my sunglasses. “Get black!”
He obviously thought I said “Get back!” which was the general idea. But the team heard me correctly and Donaher cut loose with his shotgun, blowing the man-thing to crimson bits. Even as the body fell, the tattered flesh parted with a horrid sucking sound and out stepped a transparent skeleton. Smeared with blood, the bones were bluish, appearing very similar to ice.
“Tunafish!” Raul cried, gesturing. We blinked, it didn't.
As the thing clawed blindly at its skull, Richard hit the skeleton with an arrow from his ring. No effect. I decided to play hardball.
“Timex!” I commanded, undoing the strap of my wristwatch.
Tearing off their timepieces, everybody twisted the dials and tossed the devices towards the shambling mockery. It walked right over them and the resulting explosion of the self-destruct mechanisms rocked the garage, setting off a hundred goddamn car alarms. We waited, and when the smoke cleared away there was nothing remaining but a charred patch on the cracked concrete.
Mindy tried to speak, but the alarms drowned her out. Jessica nudged Raul, he gestured and silence returned.
“Never seen the species before,” Richard commented, mopping some blue moisture off his T-shirt with a handkerchief. “Anybody snatch a picture?”
Jessica silently displayed her pocket camera for an answer.
“Atta, girl!”
You're welcome, Edwardo, dear.
“Come on,” Father Donaher snorted, impatiently. “Let's get to the van.”
The rest of us agreed wholeheartedly and we raced across the parking level in double-time. Nestled between a RV and a delivery truck, we found our vehicle safe and unharmed. Twenty-two feet long and eight feet high, the van was more a mobile home than anything else. Or rather, mobile fort. The windows were inch-thick Armorlite plastic, the hull armored to withstand .50 rounds. All ten of the tires were military-grade self-repairing radials. The RV was airtight, with a twelve hour supply of oxygen, carried more electrical surveillance equipment than Air Force One and had a missile pod disguised as an air-conditioner unit on the roof. We stole that idea from a Mack Bolan novel. At the present, we lacked missiles. Those weren't normally considered standard supplies for a vacation. Although they would be from now on.
Reaching the van, we carefully turned off the antipersonnel devices, canceled the magical barrier and unlocked the doors. Following procedure for being away for this long, we ran a security check, but the vehicle was clean. The only bugs were the crickets in a cage to feed our pet watchdog. A fat little lizard we called Amigo. He didn't appear dangerous, but the carnivorous Gila had a tiny magical necklace about its throat and God help the poor thief who broke into our van. ‘Nuff said.
Firmly locking the doors, we gently laid George on a bunk that folded out from the wall. He was white and sweaty, but did not complain of our rough handling. In short order, I had his shirt off and the mages were taping his chest with a soft golden cloth, muttering steadily. As we watched, the exposed bruises started to pale and the fat man heaved a mighty sigh.
Convinced he was going to be fine, I made my way to the rear of the van. Already, Donaher was elbow-deep in the weapon locker reloading his shotgun and getting a belt of mixed ammo for George. Mindy had her rainbow sword strapped to her waist and was testing the balance on a handful of razor-sharp oriental throwing stars. They have a name, but I forget. Jessica was checking the action on a double-barrel taser stun pistol. I helped myself to a couple of reloads for the Magnum and a satchel of grenades. Everybody took a new watch.
We then exchanged positions with the mages, who cycled open the special cabinet containing their wands and books. Raul's wand was about a foot long and made of steel. Richard's was three feet long, and solid silver tipped with gold. Apparently the better the wizard, the fancier the staff. Guess they started off with wood and ended with diamond. Jimmy used to tease Raul about the length of his staff, until the mage turned him into a toad for an afternoon and that sort of took the fun out of it.
Preliminaries over, the two wizards took seats at the back of the van well away from the radio, which had a habit of not working in their immediate presence; as did firearms, VCRs and computers, but not fax machines. Once they tried to explain why, but I got lost as they dove into quantum mechanics and the nature of flux reality.
Jessica was in the swivel chair before the communications console, her nimble fingers tapping authorizations and such into the mainframe co
mputer. The laser printer came to life with a whine, sliding out the finished paper into view when done.
“Hmm, it's in code,” she said, offering me the sheet. That was odd. Sitting in the passenger seat, I stared at the paper, letting the garbled words enter my mind and re-arrange themselves into coherent sentences. “Identification code, yes, that's correct, from the office of Horace Gordon, the big boss himself, in reference to blah, blah, blah...” As I finished reading the message, the paper dropped to the floor. “Holy shit!”
“What is it?” Jessica asked, snatching the paper but the ink was already gone
“Holy shit!” I repeated, unable to express myself any more clearly or precisely.
“I think we may need more information than that, chief,” Richard said, sounding amused.
“And watch the language,” Donaher scolded, working the pump action of the shotgun.
Moaning, George sat upright on the bunk appearing much better. “Talk, Ed,” he whispered hoarsely, herbal smoke billowing from his mouth.
A swallow cleared my throat. “We,” I paused to cough. “We've been ordered to Bureau headquarters.”
Silence thick as lead filled the van. Then Father Donaher mumbled something in Latin, and the rest of the team nodded assent.
Holy shit, indeed.
THREE
Mindy opened and closed her mouth a few times as if to chew air into her lungs. “Bureau headquarters?” she asked, stressing the last word.
“B-but nobody even knows where it is!” Raul stammered, spreading his arms wide. “We've been under maximum security since 1987!”
